


You Brought the Monster

by an_environmental_product



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, NOT a smut fic, Plot-heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_environmental_product/pseuds/an_environmental_product
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse. </p><p>Over-all warnings so far: Implied drug use, implied violence, implied sexual abuse, sexual situations.<br/>Specific warnings will be included at the head of each chapter so as to avoid any triggers for those who still wish to read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to the Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

The house was far too quiet, as if even the building itself was waiting with baited breath for the arrival of the monster with red eyes and too-cold skin. The only noise was his own breathing and the ticking of the clock on the mantle, the usually soft sound ominous and echoing in the silence. Regulus stared at it, watching the second hand shutter and jerk to each now position, waiting, his heart beating faster than the flutter of a dragonfly's wings.

"Good evening, Mr. Riddle."

It was his father's voice and the first sound Regulus had heard other than the clock in the hour since he'd been told to wait in the parlor. The door was cracked open and he sat in a well-made and comfortable armchair in his own home, yet for all the world, he could have been locked away in a dungeon and still felt safer.

"Good evening. I'm sure you have Regulus waiting for me already?"

The voices were coming from the entry way, drifting up the stairs and through the room. They sounded distant as compared to the clock's ticking. Regulus stood. If he walked fast enough, he could get up to his room, owl his brother, and climb down the trellis on the side of the house. He could leave and never come back. As long as he could forget the way his mother had cried for days when Sirius had done the same thing or the way his father hadn't spoken or shown his face outside of the study.

Before Regulus could move any farther, the door opened. His eyes snapped up and were met and held by rings of blood-read. Suddenly, those eyes were the entire world, and lost memories and thoughts that he had no real reason to be thinking were making their way to the surface of his mind, as if those eyes were digging them up and out. He blinked and tore his gaze away before looking down, feeling his thoughts begin to make conscious sense again.

"Ah. Regulus Black."

Regulus glanced past the tall, inhuman figure toward his father who nodded desperately—eager to sell his son's soul for safety and a cause that didn't settle just right in Regulus' gut. Regulus looked back down at the ground, head and eyes averted respectfully.

"My Lord."

:::

Regulus opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of his room, the same one he'd had since being moved out of the nursery in early childhood. The same one across the hall from where another young boy had once slept. A young boy with a bigger grin and brighter eyes, longer hair and always in movement.

As shadows crept across his ceiling, telling an unintelligible story of the neighborhood beyond his house, Regulus' mind wandered over the contents of his dream before he realized it had been a memory. That had been three years ago. He'd been sixteen and home for Christmas. His parents' gift to him had been selling him off to the Dark Lord. His family's safety would be ensured; his parents would be proud of him; the world would change, and he would help it.

 _Don't think_ , Regulus thought to himself,  _you mustn't think._

Despite the reminder, Regulus' hear beat fast, and his jaw and fists gripped tight. He threw his blankets off of him—a splash of dulled green through the sunrise-stained air—and got dressed quickly into his black robes, then stood, feeling lost in his own room. Though he was standing on the rug upon which his bed was placed, he could feel the cold coming off of the hardwood floor a few inches away from him. It sent a shiver up his spine before he put on his shoes and sat down again on the edge of his bed. He longed for the mark on his arm to burn. He longed for a distraction. He longed for anything to call him away. Even pain. Pain numbed the mind just as well as, and sometimes better than, pleasure.

After long moments, nothing came. Biting down hard on his tongue, keeping back a scream, Regulus dug his fingers into his sheets and mattress uselessly, then stalked forward and opened his door quickly and tensely before slamming it shut behind him. The anger and pent up aggression was seething through him, and staring at the identical deep brown door across from him was not helping matters.  _Sirius Orion Black_ , he read to himself silently. He held back a snarl, then turned on his heel to continue down the hall, his robes billowing at the movement. He wanted to kick and punch. He wanted to tug at his own hair. He wanted to slash anything or anyone with a blade. He wanted to kill and hear screams. He wanted to-

"Kreacher."

"Will Master Regulus need breakfast?"

Regulus' face softened and he knelt down to look at the elf who had practically raised him, feeling the scratchy Victorian rug that lined the halls and stairs against his knees through his pants. He stared down at the pattern for a moment, calming himself before looking up into Kreacher's eyes. "No thank you, Kreacher." There were flowers on the edges of the rug. They were red. Maroon. He swallowed. "But perhaps lunch for when I return. You don't need to worry about the time." Kreacher's eyes were pale and grey, eerily matching the family that had owned himself and his kin for generations.

"Of course." The elf bowed and moved to the side, allowing Regulus room to pass.

The carpet scraped his palm softly as he pushed himself back up. He wanted to rub his skin raw against it until the fabric felt like blades. "Thank you," Regulus said quietly before standing and stepping past Kreacher to continue down the stairs. The fear kicked in again—the fear that he was becoming something horrible or had already. He was a monster. His blood boiled, and he had to hold back the need to run. Instead, he calmly stepped into an alleyway and disapparated.


	2. Answer the Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.
> 
> Over-all warnings so far: Implied drug use, implied violence, implied sexual abuse, sexual situations.  
> Specific warnings will be included at the head of each chapter so as to avoid any triggers for those who still wish to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

When the world came back into focus, Regulus stood before a grand manor. The iron gate was before him, and the large, well-kept lawn beyond that. The manor itself was a dark smudge against the landscape, an imposing and impressive shadow against the newly-risen sun. He was as close as he could get with the apparition wards surrounding the place and blocking him, and he stared forward for a moment. Why was he here? He had started to come here far too often. It was dangerous to become attached, and even having a habit was an attachment. Still, Regulus knew what he needed, and he knew only one person who was going to not only give him that, but take it so for-granted that word of it would go nowhere else.  
  
He let out a breath and walked through the gate and through the wards, knowing they would alert Rodolphus of a presence, but not of any danger. Regulus was cleared to be here. After all, they were related and on the same side of the war ripping through the wizarding world. He scanned first the grounds for his cousin-in-law, then walked up to the door to knock when he saw nothing but greenery: grasses and hedges and rose bushes. It was a stroke of luck that Rodolphus himself answered, rather than a house-elf, and the moment Regulus saw the other man, taller and darker with cinnamon eyes, he smirked.  
  
Memories, very real memories, flashed through his mind. People screaming. Blood flowing. The sound of crying, shouting, begging. Flashes of green light. Red light. Blue light. Bones breaking. Moans and yelps. Alcohol. A cocktail of potions. Hands flying back against a headboard. Back arching, body tensing. Moaning. Laughing. Screaming.  
  
“I do hope you have your knife on you, cousin.”  
  
“Of course.” Rodolphus smirked, a darkly charismatic smirk that Regulus knew well and sometimes craved. He had no real love for the man standing in front of him, of course, but the expression that Regulus was beginning to hold so dear meant that he would be able to leave his internal pain behind in favor of the world of physical pain: pure, simple, easy to get past and to bear. The worst that could happen was that he could bleed, ache, scream, or shatter. It was nothing, really. It was easy, and it was fascinating.  
  
“Shall we?” Regulus stepped to the side of the door, letting his cousin-in-law out of the house. Rodolphus strode onto the porch, satisfaction still written across his face, then turned to lock the door and reset the wards with a lazy flick of his wand. When he turned back to Regulus, his smirk had widened, glimmering behind his eyes, dark but bright like the sheen of wet tar. “Where to, dear cousin?” was his question, his voice low yet filled with mirth.  
  
 Just as Regulus opened his mouth to answer—thinking of a small muggle pub known already for violence somewhere near his home—they both paused, feeling their skin burn and crawl. Both of their arms twitched lightly in reaction—Rodolphus, his left and Regulus, being left-handed, his right. Regulus’ grey eyes slid shut and he took a deep breath before opening his eyes again to see Rodolphus grinning at him widely and wildly, the expression all teeth. Regulus grinned back in much the same matter before putting his hand to the mark underneath his clothes and, once Rodolphus had temporarily taken down the apparition wards which would go right back up once they were gone, turned on the spot and disappeared with a crack.  
  
It was strange seeing the Dark Lord in the daytime. Meetings were hardly ever held during the day, and the sunlight glanced off of the pale skin of their master’s face, shadowed only barely by the black hood he wore. His red eyes flashed brightly with anger, and yet there was a smirk present as well, which made the blood of everyone in the circle run cold. It meant that he already knew how to ensure his revenge for whatever slight—real or imagined—he had suffered. They could each only hope that it was not themselves who had been the perpetrator.  
  
Regulus, the youngest and originally nothing more than a symbol of good will and loyalty between his family and the pureblood cause, an ambassador and trophy of sorts, took his place in the circle directly across from his master. He had once been under the most scrutiny due to his physical and abstract positions, but had quickly proved himself loyal once he’d been a true member outside of school. Still, his place in the circle of Death Eaters had remained the same, and each meeting provided him with a complete viewing of each expression on his master’s face. From behind his mask, he watched carefully and shrewdly, though always avoiding eye contact, keen on noticing as much as possible. His master’s moods were both fickle and horrifically important to keep track of. Still watching, Regulus shifted lightly in the grass of the forest clearing, glanced up toward the green-filtered light shining through the leaves, then stilled, his head bowing as the Dark Lord spoke, his ears straining to hear each and every expression that his eyes would now miss.  
  
“Welcome, my Death Eaters,” the man said concisely. Each word was emphasized and drawn out in almost a teasing manner. His voice was nearly quiet enough to be a hiss, dark and foreboding. Regulus let out a deep breath at the sound, hearing the flow of air shake as it escaped him. No matter how hard he fell, he would never stop fearing the Dark Lord. He may call the man master, but there was certainly no trust. He did this for himself and possibly his family, no one else.  The voice continued and an ant skittered across the blade of grass at which Regulus stared. “A single source of rebellion against me has finally been recognized. Defiance that finally has a name—” The Dark Lord began to pace, his strides long and threatening, into and then out of the center of the circle—“They are, as I always suspected they would be, led by Dumbledore.” The pacing stopped, and the Dark Lord’s voice grew all the more cold. “They call themselves the Order of the Phoenix.”  
  
Regulus chanced a change of position, lifting his head just enough to glance up past his eyelashes and mask, able to catch sight of his master’s face without looking any less submissive. The eyes flashed even redder, if that was at all possible, as though the whites were now red as well perhaps bloodshot with rage. Regulus blinked, doubtful that his perceptions were entirely accurate. Emotions did not affect the body so obviously so quickly, even if his lord did spit out the name of the organization as though it were a curse. Blood-red swiveled suddenly to meet Regulus’ own cool, grey gaze, and Regulus froze, finding himself unable to look away.  
  
“One of their most beloved fighters is, of course, Sirius Black, rivaled only by James Potter.”  
  
Several hisses sounded at the name, the loudest of which belonged to Bellatrix who was counterpoint to Regulus, over at his left. For Regulus, there was nothing to do but raise his head slowly, already caught in and resigned to the eye contact, and gulp. Images of torture flashed through his mind as he wondered whether or not he would be made to pay for his brother’s shortcomings in the pureblood culture they had both been born into. He knew also that the Dark Lord would be able to sense this worry easily, perhaps even be good enough to see what Regulus’ own imagination was seeing. It did not matter. He would know the answer to his fearful, internal question soon enough.  
  
To his relief, nothing came. The Dark Lord’s gaze moved on, leaving Regulus to wonder whether his thoughts of torture had been brought to the surface by his own mind or by the force of his master’s. Was it a warning? Or was his fear a mere coincidence that appeased the imposing figure at the head of the circle? Regulus could not know and, deep down, he knew it did not matter. All that mattered was that the blood irises had moved away. He closed his eyes for just seconds and let out a soft breath before staring down once more at the grass.  
  
“We shall test them, and the ministry as well. How quickly can their numbers convene? How foolishly do they act? How impotent will they be against us, the single most powerful force fighting for the good of the wizarding world?” The Dark Lords voice rose in volume as he spoke, taking on a rallying tone, inviting nods and, from those whose masks left exposed the bottoms of their faces, grins. None dared cheer, though Bellatrix nearly flung herself forward in fervor, crying out, “Yes, my lord! Let us test them!” Regulus’ eyes traced his cousin’s movements. Her knees had bent slightly as though she had meant to kneel, and her hands had clasped.  
  
The Dark Lord and the rest of the circle had already seen too many of such shows to be surprised, though there was still always the strange, breathless silence, and the slight shift of mood. None could imagine acting as Bellatrix did, and yet the Dark Lord tolerated it from her alone, perhaps sensing that the enthusiasm was completely genuine. Regulus’ eyes shifted to Rodolphus who, shaded by a large branch of a pine tree, shifted uncomfortably next to his wife. He knew Rodolphus found the worship to be off-putting and had once resented it before giving up on doing anything so impossible as taming a Black.  
  
As Regulus had thought, the Dark Lord had already stepped quietly and slowly over to Bellatrix, a satisfied, indulgent smirk on his lips as he placed a hand softly on top of her hooded head. “Yes,” he said softly before pulling his hand back to the crown of her head and then away with a caress. “We shall test them. And who here—” he stepped away from Bellatrix, back toward the center of the circle, and lifted his arms up slightly, imploring to all of them, though he doubtless knew the answer already—“Who here would like to bring Sirius Black to me? His head on a plate, his eyes roving with pain!” Regulus bit his tongue hard and kept his gaze down, praying the tension in his shoulders did not show. He pushed away memories and images of his brother in such pain, knowing not to invite any more emotion that might show in his body language or in his eyes.  
  
“Me, my Lord!” Bellatrix finally did fall down to her knees, one hand in the grass, the other raised as if she had only just stopped herself from touching her master’s robes. “I will bring the bloodtraitor to you. The shame of my poor aunt’s flesh and bones.”  
  
There was a silence that Regulus had no doubt had been purposeful and drawn out for effect. A stillness and deep silence came over them all, the circle of slightly bowed, hooded figures, the darkness of their robes contrasting with the brightness of the daylight shining through to the clearing, lighting up the world with an airy green and earthy brown. “Yes,” the Dark Lord hissed, finally breaking the moment, aware that every follower, met by silence first, had been straining their ears to listen, intent and completely attentive. “You will.” He paused again before stepping back into his place and raising his voice back into a rallying cry. “We go to Diagon Alley today! I say today, and not tonight, for this day we shall emerge from the shadows. They  will recognize us and bow in fear! They will finally see the shadows that they cannot outrun! When we meet again, we will revel in the success of fear, having tested our enemies and having been proved to be the greater force!”  
  
The single voice rang through the air, and, though no one dared cheer, the audible excitement followed—the shifting of impatient feet, the rustling of hands in robes, perhaps finding wands in preparation perhaps clenching bracingly at cloth, the murmur of breathing and heartbeats that raced. “Now go!” was the Dark Lord’s last command, his face arranged into an expression of triumph. Regulus caught his master’s eyes one last time, just long enough to see a much darker smirk flicker through that gaze, then spun, welcoming instead the green blur of the spinning forest around him, and disapparated.

“I suppose we know ‘where to’ now,” Rodolphus’ voice spoke quietly behind him just as Regulus reappeared in a gloomy alleyway in Knockturn Alley. Rodolphus’ breath pressed warmth against Regulus’ neck as the hood of his robe had fallen, and Regulus fought off the urge to jump, turning it instead into a quick turn even as he recognized the deep, gravelly yet silky tone. He smirked behind his mask, sure the expression would show in his eyes and tone. “I suppose we do,” he answered with ease, pulling his hood back over his head. 


	3. Take a Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

A cottage-esque building exploded next to him, and Regulus laughed, easily warping his anxiety into a feeling of giddiness even as he shied away from the debris and flames.  He ducked into the next shopfront, causing a man who had been hiding just underneath the window to run and let out a frightened shout. Regulus let him go, amused enough by such a response, and looked around at the room. Yes, he did recognize this place; it was an inn, the bottom floor of which was a pub. Tables and chairs were overturned from the rush of people trying to escape Diagon Alley as it burned and seethed with enemies. 

Regulus’ eyes landed on  the set of stairs leading up to the boarding rooms. Acting merely on whim, he made his way over, winding across the linoleum floor and through the obstacle course of wooden tables and chairs. The stairs were creaky but stable, and Regulus trailed his fingers up the smoothly polished banister idly. The last thing any of them had expected was an attack in the middle of the day. Never before had the Death Eaters been allowed to be so bold, and Regulus doubted it would happen again anytime soon. He was going to relish it.    
  
When he got to the top of the stairs, he looked around at the unpolished wooden hallway carpeted by a dusty rug that ran down the middle, similar to the one at home but much more plain and more threadbare. He smirked slightly before turning left and slamming the door open, his wand out.  “No one here,” he mourned in a singsong voice before crossing the hall to the door on his right and checking there as well. He checked each door, staying on guard whenever he opened one as he didn’t know what might be behind it, and sighed when he reached the last one. If fifteen other doors had led to empty rooms, it was likely that everyone had left at the first sign of trouble.   
  
As he suspected, the sixteenth room was as empty as the rest. A small amount of irritation registered on Regulus’ mostly inexpressive face, and he crossed the room to the double-door balcony. After stepping around a dusty, black shirt that had likely been left behind in the rush to leave, Regulus flung open the glass doors and stepped outside. Habitually, he expected fresh air and a bright day of sun shining down on the roofs of Diagon Alley. Instead, he was greeted by fire and screams and tinny laughter muffled by masks. He grinned behind his own mask, and excitement rushed through him again at the sight, renewed from his failure to find anyone to play with.  
  
The sight was invigorating, and Regulus swung his legs up over the balcony railing to sit and take it all in for a moment. He wanted to pait it, to fill the canvas with oranges and reds. The shoppers and shopkeepers were being herded helplessly around the streets. The only exit into London was the Leaky Cauldron and the only other options were the floo or apparition. No one wanted to run all the way to the Cauldron; no one wanted to risk trapping themselves in a building with Death Eaters close at hand, and even less people wanted to risk turning their backs in order to spin and apparate. With not a single good decision in sight, most of them slipped into nothing more than a panic, running this way and that, cornering themselves in the dead ends of the alleyways or even running to Knockturn Alley, which Regulus doubted would get them far either.   
  
He laughed as he watched, a loud laugh that he often hated simply because it reminded him so much of his brother’s. They had once sounded the same, but then Sirius’ voice had changed more than Regulus’ had, and Regulus could laugh or speak as he pleased without being confused for the other one. Though their pitch differed, the quality of their luaghs had remained maddeningly similar, but he ignored it for now, contenting himself watching the trapped fools. A mass of them sprinted toward a road leading to Knockturn Alley, and Regulus waved his wand lazily. A building erupted, cutting them off, and a few Death Eaters ran toward them, sending shrieks into the air. Regulus laughed again, a manic giggle as he tried to hold it back.  
  
“You’re turning into your cousin, Black,” A deep, slow voice said behind him. Regulus didn’t even bother turning. Anyone would know that voice. It was very distinct. It was also entirely intimidating in the best of ways.   
  
“Hello, Severus,” Regulus said mildly, smirking behind his mask. “What brings you here?”  
  
“I noticed a fool sitting on top of a railing, just waiting to fall.” As the other man spoke, Regulus could feel him step up next to him, close enough that he could brush him right off of the balcony. Regulus didn’t so much as flinch.  
  
“Think of it as a broom ride,” Regulus told him.  He received a short,  noncommittal hum in response. Severus didn’t like brooms, and Regulus knew this, but he’d managed to communicate clearly that one shouldn’t forget that he’d been a seeker. Being high up in a place where he would have to depend on agility was nothing new to him. Even if it was stupid.   
  
“And when the building explodes?”  
  
“I’ll jump.” Regulus finally turned to him with a grin that he knew would show in his eyes. Black eyes bored into his own, but Regulus held the gaze. He didn’t fear it like many did. He didn’t even care that it felt just like when the Dark Lord read him. He had nothing to hide from Severus. If he ever did one day, he could take care of it then. 

“A foolproof plan as always, Black. Worthy of your—” 

Regulus cut him off with a snarl. “Watch it Snape, or you’ll be the one falling off of here.” The look in those black eyes didn’t change, and Regulus knew to picture the small twist of a sardonic smirk on thin lips.   
  
“Doubtless.”   
  
With a sigh, Regulus let it go, easily reverting their bickering to a friendlier conversation. It was always this way, and Regulus enjoyed it really. The intro to any of their conversations was like a little exercise for his brain. Plus, he secretly thought that Severus only appreciated a person who could hold their own against him first. It was like passing a test of worth. “Where is this going?” He asked, knowing Severus would be able to deduce what he meant without him saying more.   
  
“Not very far.” A single nod toward the alley made his point. Regulus followed his gaze and saw about fifteen people apparate into the street at once. As if led by radar, his eyes instantly found straight black hair that draped like silk down a neck and, when the man turned, draped over grey eyes.   
  
“Let’s see how they pass the test,” Regulus said, a smirk gracing his own features. He glanced at Severus before he slipped off of the railing. He loved the feeling of falling. He loved the jolt of his stomach just before it started to feel more like floating than anything else. He even liked landing—the moment in which every one of his bones was jostled until he had to make sure they were all intact before walking stiffly and then more firmly for a few steps. He saw his brother turn and grinned before blocking the stunning spell easily.


	4. The Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

"Sir'" the younger boy whispered, his hand grasping at the elder's sleeve. They were both crouched by the bushes on the side of the house, mere steps away from the sidewalk. Once they stepped out of the property lines, seeming to appear out of nowhere between the seamless townhouses, their parents would feel the wards, and they would have to run for it. "Sir', Mummy and Daddy said no. We're going to get into trouble."

A young Sirius Black turned and looked over his shoulder at the boy who, in those days, could pass as his miniature, and grinned, though there was a sharp, childish impatience to the expression. "Come on, Reg. It won't be too bad, and they're playing football! You said you wanted to try. I reckon it's even more fun than Quidditch," he continued, now looking at the children in the park across the street longingly, "all that running, yeah?"

Regulus sighed, squirming closer to his brother's back. He didn't want to be too far behind when they ran. Despite his sigh, he wriggled excitedly and couldn't help agreeing with his brother. "Yeah." One nod from the littlest, and the argument was over. They were in it together.

"Ready?" The moment he could feel his brother nod against his shoulder, the older boy dove forward into a sprint. There were no cars around, and they both ran straight across the street toward the park, the younger trailing behind much less than it seemed like he should; he was smaller but quite fast. They didn't slow until their feet finally reached the grassy lawn of the park, and the younger brother tumbled into the other's back before catching himself.

"Sir,' look!" he whispered excitedly, grasping at his brother's sleeve again and pointing quickly at a group of children a few yards away kicking around a black and white ball. It wasn't checkered, exactly, and the design was very strange, but Regulus wanted to try badly. It looked like great fun. He was practically bouncing in his place in the grass.

"Let's go join them." The eldest stepped forward purposely, but the youngest hesitated for a moment as if realizing that they might not be welcome or perhaps just feeling shy. Eventually, though, he ran to catch up with his brother, and they walked over to the group together. "Alright?" Sirius called out to the player closest to them. She kicked the ball away before turning to them.

"Alright," she replied before cocking her head lightly. "You want to play?" She asked, looking the two boys up and down. They looked almost exactly the same, so it would be a good idea to put them on the same side. The younger boy nodded first with such shy enthusiasm that she had to smile at him. "Go on that side," she said, pointing, "and get the ball into that net," she pointed again. "No hitting," she added, "and no hands."

The younger boy was used to being bossed around and nodded with another smile before easily going to join the children on his side. He paused, though, when he realized his older brother had not done the same, instead giving the girl in front of him a critical look. "Siri," the younger brother whined quietly so that no one but his brother and the girl would hear him. He wanted to play. When his brother joined him, the game, which had paused for a moment while everyone had watched the exchange, continued.

A half hour or so of the day passed happily this way. The two boys laughed and booed with the rest of their team during mess ups, triumphs, and losses. The younger one proved his worth by being able to out-sprint and, thanks to his small size, out-maneuver most of the other boys, and made quite a few goals. It didn't last forever though, and the eldest brother was in the middle of trying to fight the ball away from another boy on the opposing team when all of the children, the younger brother most especially, went still.

A woman was stalking toward them all, dressed very strangely in a robe that was too long to be a bathrobe and too grand to be a graduation robe. She was tall and imposing, and the children around the two brothers thought that she was quite the spectacle. A few of the children giggled, but then crowded close together in the grass feild. She was very frightening, and the look on her face said clearly that she didn't care for a single one of them one bit. "Sirius Orion and Regulus Arcturus Black!" She shrieked when she was close enough. This caused some more giggles, this time at the boys, and the younger brother ducked his head and blushed. "Get over here!"

The younger brother scampered over without hesitation, but the older one set his jaw and pouted for a moment before walking over more slowly, his body language straight and proud. The woman grabbed both of the boy's arms viciously and marched them away—out of the park, across the street, and back to the invisible house that no one knew existed. The children left behind looked around at each other, shrugged or laughed, and went back to their play. The adults exchanged skeptical glances before going back to talking or reading their books or magazines.

The two boys exchanged glances, one guilty and one triumphant, and each silently thought that it wasn't so bad being sent up to their room after all since they had each other there anyway, even if Phineas Nigellus would tell on anything they did. It was just a shame that they didn't get supper.

:::

Regulus stared into the fire, nursing a large mug of firewhiskey as he ignored the talk of the others around him. Those boys had existed so long ago and had changed so much that Regulus had trouble even assigning names to them. A younger brother and an older one and only a few signs in sight that one would be a blood traitor and the other would be… what was he exactly? Monster. Hero. Murderer. Soldier. Too many conflicting words sped through his mind. And yet how conflicting were they, really? Each of them could only be separated from the other by the mere technicality and subjectivity of morality.

"If it weren't you, I'd ask why you were moping."

"Are you implying that you know me so well that you know why, or are you implying that I mope as others breathe?"

"Both." The voice behind him laughed, and its owner came into his view before sitting down next to him on the black leather sofa complemented by green and silver throw pillows—Malfoy Manor had a sitting room almost ridiculously reminiscent of the Slytherin common room. Objectively, he knew she was quite attractive; glossy, dark brown hair and round brown eyes the color of melted chocolate. Her skin was light, but golden, and that and the somewhat thick jawline made Regulus suspect she had some Italian in her though they'd never happened to speak of it, not even after their parents had met up at the most intimate of dinner parties to discuss the marriage they'd arranged. "It's that idiotic brother of yours isn't it?" Alecto asked.

Regulus simply shrugged, looking away from her and back into the flames. He would wed her of course, and he'd known that since he'd been sixteen and she'd been seventeen, but no matter how often or for how long he looked at her, it would only ever be because of duty. The spark of the fire in her warm eyes did nothing for him, and the dull shine of it in his grey did nothing for her. They both knew it, and they both accepted it.

"I saw you two fighting," she remarked before stealing a sip of his whiskey. Regulus put a hand up between them when she offered it back and let her keep it. "You're much more still. Languid. It's actually quite attractive."

Again, Regulus said nothing. He didn't want to think of his brother. He didn't want to think of the special hatred and betrayal that flashed through his brother's when nearly identical eyes met, one pair shadowed by nothing but hair, the other pair shadowed by a mask. It made his skin crawl and his stomach tighten. Whether it was with disgust, anxiety, anger, or some combination of the three, Regulus did not know.

"Would you kill him, Regulus?" She asked, her voice quiet and curious rather than challenging. She wanted to know the real answer and Regulus knew that, despite their lack of love, there was enough loyalty—some out of fear of social retribution and some born of actual respect—there that she would tell no one if he said no.

"I'm sworn to do whatever my Lord asks of me," Regulus responded simply, meeting her eyes steadily as he took the mug back to take a long sip. He handed it back and watched as she smiled wryly. She knew as well as he did what such an indirect answer meant. It meant that Regulus had no idea.


	5. The Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Implied violence, Implied non-con, Implied slash, Drug Use, Implied knife-play.

“Look at her.”  
  
Regulus did so lazily, still draped over the black leather armchair in the sitting room at the Lestranges’. He could feel sweat still clinging to his body, some from the drugs, some from the physical paces Rodolphus had put him through after the victory get-together at the Malfoys'.  
  
The woman was limp, kneeling like a puppet that had been dropped. He could see where the blood was matting her hair together and could image the sharp iron scent of it though he knew it was likely only in his mind, likely helped along by the taste of it in his own mouth. He ran his tongue across his teeth, dry and sticking, then swallowed, still tasting the metals of blood and adrenaline.  
  
“She’s beautiful,” Rodolphus whispered, circling her and bending down to grab a strand of her caramel hair and swoop it through the air with his movements like a ribbon. The woman did nothing but shiver, wise enough to not rise and to keep her eyes shut. Rodolphus was like a hound; he loved nothing more than he loved a chase.  
  
Regulus felt nausea rise up from the deepest part of his guts and burn in this throat. Letting his head drop back heavily so that it strained his neck, Regulus shut his eyes and tried to hold the feeling down. He couldn’t. His bare skin was covered with goosebumps and fluids and the sweat was turning cold and clammy as he let out a sigh deep enough that it was almost the whisper of a moan or a growl. He didn’t hear Rodolphus step up, and when he felt fingertips press into the skin of his lower stomach, Regulus startled, pulling himself up with only his stomach muscles. It made the blood in his head rush and his torso burn with the effort. Propping himself up with his hands, he found himself staring into Rodolphus’ dark eyes, his back still stinging from being torn from the sticking leather.  
  
“Still feel good, Black?” the man nearly purred, pushing his fingers sloppily through the thick roots of Regulus’ hair, making it stand on end even after the hand had pulled away. The fingers on his other hand still brushed back and forth across Regulus’ stomach, travelling lower.  
  
It was hard to resist the feeling of that touch, but it was also hard to resist the feeling of nausea rising through him, especially as he’d been pulled upward so quickly, his equilibrium at a loss. He decided on honesty and shook his head rather than risk losing his dinner all over Rodolphus’ floor. His breath hitched when fingers deftly traced against the new cut into his stomach and he held back a groan and tensed, just barely keeping himself from arching up. “No,” he whispered, his tone vague enough that whether he was answering the question or telling Rodolphus to stop was a mystery even to himself. Maybe both.  
  
Those slender fingers dug in, and Regulus called out, bucking but this time in pain. “Do you want more or do you want to leave?” Rodolphus asked impatiently.  
  
Regulus shook his head. He wasn’t sure if Rodolphus meant more drugs or more… this. Either way, it didn’t matter. “I’m going home.”  
  
The girl behind Rodolphus’ towering frame finally slid sideways to the floor, and Regulus felt nausea hit him again so that he held his mouth firmly shut to muffle a retch. The cocktail of substances was wearing off and leaving withdrawal in its wake. He could hardly even remember what they’d done. Her hair fell over her face, hiding it, and Regulus counted it as a blessing that he couldn’t even recall a single one of her features. Rodolphus pulled him to his feet firmly, but not overly-rough,  and it reminded Regulus of his brother in a strange way.  
  
 _Come_ on _Reg! Get_ up _, Uncle Alphard is coming today!_

Regulus swayed against the red-carpet floor, on the verge of a flashback, and shook his head to chase the ghosts away. He refocused just in time to have his clothes shoved into his arms. Painfully and slowly, he got dressed, both hating and loving the stinging of slices and bruises and bites on his skin as he moved and as his clothing brushed against them. “I’m not coming back,” he said flatly as he finished and lit up a cigarette.

Regulus said the same words exactly the same way every single time. And they were always a lie. He always came back. Sometimes it took longer than others so that he was gasping with need only a few minutes in to whatever they decided to do that day, begging to chase adrenaline and poisons and pleasure through their bodies. Sometimes it was so often that he could pretend to be bored and unaffected even at the first slice or hit of one thing or another against his flesh.

“Of course not,” Rodolphus said, just as casually and without a hint of sarcasm behinds his words. For whatever reason, he actually respected this part of their twisted little ritual. He did not doubt Regulus, here and now, meant the words, but neither did he believe them, and Regulus knew it. There had been a time when he would mean it; now he wasn’t so sure. 

Regulus stumbled out of the mansion and into the cold. He took a deep breath of the bitter air, inviting the burn that would rip apart his insides so that they might match his flesh and his soul. It didn’t happen. Instead, it dulled him with each step, and by the time he had apparated back to his own home and collapsed into his bed, he was completely numb. At least this way, he could sleep and drift away into nothing. 


	6. And Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

“How else are we meant to go about this, then?”  
  
“I for one think we ought to—”

Regulus for one thought ‘going about’ luring out and ambushing Albus Dumbledore was a waste of a discussion.

Within the desolate house, the floor above them creaked. Rodolphus hushed them all and, past the white of his mask, Regulus could just see his eyes swivel round to glare at Bellatrix who had instead let out a manic giggle in response. There was another sound, another footstep, and it drew Regulus’ eyes up toward the ceiling which was nothing more than the bare boards of the floor above, one layer in which there was a jagged hole caused by rot. It was as though the Dark Lord had just walked in to his place in the circle; the only sound was the staggered breathing of a group trying to remain inconspicuous and silent. There was another rustle.   
  
“Maybe it’s just ra—” 

Crouch was wrong. It definitely wasn’t rats dropping down through that hole. Regulus stiffened and his left hand flew to his pocket before drawing out his wand. He held it down but pointed forward, on guard but not obviously so. He was always the type to observe carefully before the attack, to notice patterns and gives. This was always especially easy if he knew who the attackers were;  he’d encountered members of the Order often enough to know most of them by face and style if not by name. This group was unmistakable. Two mops of black hair: one long, one short and cow-licked; another mop—this one brown—a flash of red, and a blond double agent that Regulus would love to kill himself. Just a few of Dumbledore’s absolute favorites.   
  
Regulus held back a curse and jumped back a few steps before turning to run. It was never too late to turn one’s back to an enemy. Just as he turned, he caught the flash of Sirius’ eyes landing on him, lit bright by the moonlight filtering in through the termite-eaten walls. The sight had only been in his periphery, but as he ran, his mind was equipped more than well enough to fill in the rest, making the image as bright and clear as a summer day.   
  
As they ran toward the door, a red light shot between them, and a wall jutting out to form a hallway to the right exploded, cutting them off. They scattered with the natural flow that came only from running in a group away from danger. Herd mentality. Regulus cursed when he got caught in the group heading toward the stairs. Upward was never the way toward an escape. Someone shoved him, and he slipped slightly,  his back catching the railing and his head slamming into the wall. He bit his tongue to hold back a yelp of startled pain, and glared at the retreating back of Travers whom he could recognize by his gait.   
  
“Upstairs!” he heard Evans call out, and saw two others rush toward them. He shook himself back into action and flung himself up the stairs too quickly to see anything more than grey figures in the dark. 

It was a relief to leave behind the helpless feeling of fighting against gravity that stairs always brought. When he was in the corridor of the second floor, Regulus sprinted before picking a door at random to swerve into, nearly slipping on hardwood. His breath and body froze as soon as he stepped in past the door, and he stumbled to a stop, landing awkwardly on his knees, his hand still raised above him on the doorknob. He’d found the hole.  From below, he could hear shouts and clatters and bangs. He could see light flashing and could see a limp hand against the floor. He didn’t shift positions to try to see more of the body. He didn’t want to know who it was and whether or not they were living.   
  
Footsteps rushing and echoing through the floor from the stairs drew Regulus back to the matter at hand. Using the door, he both pulled and pushed himself up and back, slamming the door shut with the momentum he’d used to practically shoot himself back into motion down the corridor. He skidded into the next room and shut the door more quietly behind him. This room was as empty as the last, though it was whole. Clearly a bedroom, the bedframe was mold-covered and the bed sheets moth-eaten.  
  
Regulus hardly had the time to step forward before he could hear the arrival of his guests just outside the door. Milliseconds before the door even slammed open, Regulus was spinning around, his wand arm outstretched toward what tended to be eye-level.  He hesitated when he saw his brother and Potter in the doorway, Sirius crouched defensively and Potter behind him. Instead of letting loose a spell, Regulus stepped back, causing Potter to scoff. Sirius straightened enough to step forward into the room, slowly and threateningly, and Regulus could tell even just from the cloud of emotions in his eyes that Sirius already knew it was him.   
  
“Sirius.” Regulus’ voice came out flat, but beneath  his usual tone was a mixture of a plea and a warning as Sirius once again stepped closer. Neither wand faltered, and Regulus truly didn’t want to know who would get in a strike first.   
  
Potter cackled as he always did, a laugh that any Slytherin would be unfortunate to remember from school. “Oh-ho, it’s baby Black. Afraid of big brother?” The man sneered and Regulus glared at him, his eyes leaving Sirius’ own for only a moment. He wished he could say yes. He only wished he could say he was afraid of Sirius and not for him. He also wished his only way out of this room wasn’t through a window.   
  
“What are you doing here, Regulus?”  
  
The question was so absurd that it made Regulus laugh, a mad sound, a hysterical sound. The older-brotherly tone of the question, the tone that commanded him to turn around and go home as if they were young and he’d caught Regulus following after him again, was so misplaced. It didn’t belong here, in a run-down shack of a house in the middle of a bloody war. And Sirius knew what he was doing here. Sirius had found his mark almost as soon as he’d gotten it, tugging him aside in a school corridor and ripping his sleeve upward to expose it. The question was meaningless, an insane and inane quest for some casualness that might provide comfort.   
  
As Regulus laughed, his head thrown back slightly, Potter’s arm drew close to himself before he threw a curse wordlessly as though skipping a stone. Regulus didn’t have time to wonder what it was; he simply ducked the red stream of light aimed toward his chest and rolled to his right toward the wall of the room, pulling up onto one knee and whipping  his wand into Potter’s direction, forming the reductor curse in his mind before flicking a stunner at Sirius. 

In everything but a purely physical fight, Regulus was able to hold his own against his brother. That didn’t mean that it was easy, and Potter wasn’t making matters any better. He stayed on the defensive, thinking more about escape than anything else as he resolutely kept his back to the walls and his gaze on the wands and bodies of his opponents. Sirius and Potter became nothing but movements that he knew almost by heart. Potter tended to use spells which required a point in between two spells that required a slash. It made him quick as he could fire a spell, then fire another two as he swung his arm across then back into the next position.  Sirius was a less predictable force, but he did something similar as well, as most going for speed did. Potter often forgot about his back, but that wasn’t helpful now when Regulus was the only one there and they could clearly see the door. Or was it?   
  
Out of fear that Sirius would be able to read it in his eyes, Regulus held back a smirk. Potter was bad at watching his back and Sirius, who was not, would see no reason to do so and would likely be watching Potter’s back anyway. Neither of them would notice if Regulus herded them toward the window. With that, Regulus went on the offensive, effortlessly sending a flurry of spells their way, using flicks and slashes and some points, but not many. Points wasted time, and he could channel most spells without the ‘correct’ movements anyway and used his wand primarily to aim.   
  
The spells were easily blocked as long as one took a half step back and threw up a shield charm, and Regulus watched grimly as Potter laughed and turned his head to an angle where he could shoot Sirius a look without losing enough focus on Regulus to matter. Sirius didn’t share his humor, though, and Regulus could see the suspicion in his eyes as Sirius glanced backward. It was too late, though. The two favored Order members were already in front of the window. Regulus smirked and Sirius’ eyes narrowed in realization.   
  
Together, they all moved. Regulus ran at them, doing nothing with his wand other than shielding himself. Sirius dove and dragged Potter with him. Still smirking because Sirius had assumed wrong as usual by taking the dive to be an attack, Regulus closed his eyes and crashed through the window. The jagged glass tore at his robes and cut at his flesh, and, with too much momentum and not enough time to turn and land on his feet,  he had only seconds to cast a cushioning charm at the ground to protect his ribs.  
  
He landed on the over-grown grass and weeds stomach-first with no more damage than the slightly winded feeling of belly-flopping onto a mattress, then turned over. Potter and Sirius were both looking down and he heard his brother curse before spinning round, likely to run to him using a more sane exit. Only in the fantasies that had died years ago would Sirius be running out because he cared and so, he did not wait. Instead, finishing off his show, he hopped up onto his feet and gave Potter a mock salute and bow before crashing through the woods behind the house and apparating outside of the left-over wards. 


	7. Play the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings this chapter.

The walk down the stairs was enough to make him feel as if he were on a ship in the middle of the ocean, but surely it was only in his head that the world was swaying like this. His breathing and steps were uneven as he walked between the third and second landing, leaving behind the safety of his bedroom for the sitting room where he knew enough to expect red eyes and a laugh that was nothing but a twisted representation of humor. 

The moment his hand, gliding along the smooth and shining wood, reached the end of the banister, it dropped and bunched into a fist. He took a deep breath, focusing for a moment on absolutely nothing that had to do with the present. He let his mind wander, letting now and later fade to the back of his head where it was easily locked away and compartmentalized. When he snapped himself back to the present, he was more calm. His posture straight, his face neutral, and his breathing even, Regulus turned. His hand grasped the cool metal of the doorknob. A click, a squeak, a few steps, and he was in the room, facing down a man that would have given him nightmares had he not been known to sleep like the dead. 

Grey eyes met inhuman, bleach-white and  blood-red orbs that shone with derisive amusement. Regulus was not fool enough to assume that no fear at all exuded from him, and this man knew how to catch a whiff of even the smallest amount like a shark to blood. Regulus swallowed, his gaze breaking first and turning downward toward the overly-polished, dark hardwood floor. “My parents inform me that you wish to speak with me.” 

“Yes.” The Dark Lord’s voice was smooth like honey, but whereas that would calm most, Regulus sensed the overly-practiced hint to it, and it set him completely on edge.  “Please, take a seat,” the man continued in an almost perfect imitation of warmth. 

Regulus sat in the closest chair, a green armchair that matched the rest as well as the sofa. Circumstance and the amount of power and presence radiating from the man in front of him prevented him from questioning even once the strangeness of being offered a seat in his own home.  He swallowed, not leaning back, and watched the Dark Lord carefully as he quickly levitated a chair into place so that he could sit across from Regulus. Their eyes met, and Regulus kept his thoughts as empty as possible so that the only thing that made its way to the surface was a query—what was this about? 

“You have played chess, have you not?” 

The question was sudden and point-blank, and together with his nerves, it stunned Regulus into a short moment of silence before he nodded. “Yes, sir.” He decided on the use of the word ‘sir’ quickly, for the Dark Lord may be a lord to some, but not to him. Not yet. 

The man smiled. It was a useless expression that Regulus easily noted didn’t meet his eyes, nor did it meet many of the muscles of his face. It was merely a stretching of the lips and nothing more. The Dark Lord took out his wand, pointing it forward, and Regulus found himself holding back a flinch, his hand twitching just barely toward his own wand. However, the only thing that happened was the appearance of a table topped by a chessboard. It was a plain and simple set, carved of wood, though it was also clearly of wizarding make. Having taken the white side for himself, the Dark Lord moved a pawn before gesturing toward Regulus. “I expect you know how to continue.” 

Regulus dared continue watching his face for another moment before simply nodding once and looking down at the board, moving his own pawn as well. The game lasted for over an hour, but the Dark Lord showed no impatience when Regulus deliberated for any longer than what would be considered usual. In fact, it was when he thought the longest that he sensed some small air of curiosity, as if the Dark Lord were intrigued. After what felt like decades, Regulus moved his knight and his throat seemed to close, sticking tightly to his tongue. His heart hammered. 

“Check,” he finally managed to say, his voice quiet and dry with fear. 

It suddenly struck him to wonder what would happen if he won. But surely the Dark Lord would know if he backed away and _let_ him win, and wouldn’t that be considered even more insulting as well as somewhat disobedient? Uncertain, his thoughts circular and anxious, Regulus held back a shiver, watching the Dark Lord move. For a moment, he thought he was safe—that there was no way for yet another check. However, only four moves later, he was proven wrong.  

“Check.” 

His voice remained small. His stomach felt as if it were no longer attached to the rest of his organs and was instead wandering around aimlessly, jumping and squirming. He took a quick second to glance up into the Dark Lord’s face, no longer able to sense anything in the air. His eyes shot back down quickly, and he was confused to see that there was no anger or impatience—not even a hint of frustration. Instead, there was a knowing look of satisfaction. As if he’d expected this. 

“Checkmate.” 

They both watched Regulus’ black king destroy the white one. It might have looked like any other game had they not watched so closely with the critical air of those who are actually thinking about something quite different than what they are observing—one figure casual and smirking, the other tensed though still sitting straight and tall. There would be no victorious cheering here. 

Regulus’ face remained carefully blank as he braced himself for whatever would come next. Clearly, the Dark Lord was not angry, but it was even more clear that this was part of some plan. Despite winning the game, Regulus couldn’t help but feel that he was the one caught in check. He let out a slow breath, looking up after the white king fell and the board and table disappeared.  

The Dark Lord stood, his expression blank yet one of power—the face of a commander. “Checkmate,” he echoed, his voice steady and deathly cold. Regulus lowered his eyes instantly. Perhaps he had miscalculated the pleased emotions playing against the Dark Lord’s face. The man switched even more quickly and completely than Severus did, and Regulus couldn’t tell which was the real face and which was the mask. Perhaps both were false. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the Dark Lord had no knowledge of real emotions and simply played his own muscles like puppets. 

There was a long silence as if Regulus was meant to have something to say, an apology or perhaps a plea. He said nothing, and the sound of meaningless laughter filled the room, high and frigid. Regulus shivered, then hated himself for it. He hated himself for cowering in front of this man, he hated his world for pushing him to this point, and he hated for a moment his parents who locked him here alone  for yet another meeting with this man so that they might pretend nothing was wrong as they went about their days in the same ease as ever.  Suddenly, a hand pushed his chin up and he had to clamp down painfully on the burst of stinging magic that usually jumped from him whenever he felt too threatened, a remnant of his childhood magic and a reflex born of abuse. He gazed up into red eyes, and the cold, bloodless hand moved away. 

“I, despite all of my power and despite my knowledge that I _am_ the greatest sorcerer living today, will admit that you have beaten me, Regulus Black. I find that very interesting, and you are lucky that I also find it very useful.” The Dark Lord smirked and took a step back, considering him for a calculating moment. “And very interesting.” 

With that, the man strolled out of the room. It was as if a shadow, abstract yet heavier than the weight of the world, had left. Despite the lifting feeling, there was no relief, only a feeling of emptiness. Regulus shuddered and fell to his knees in the middle of the floor, pressing his face into his hands and trying and failing desperately to stave off the heavy breathing of a panic attack, his nerves raw and on-edge from the game being played not only with a board but with his mind.


	8. Roll the Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cruciatus curse  
> Also: updates will be coming slower now, hopefully once a week, as this is the first chapter that was not pre-written.

Perhaps he’d been more rushed than he’d thought. Regulus stumbled lightly when he apparated just outside of the boundaries of the Lestrange estate and cursed under his breath when his ankle twisted against a clod of grass.  His hand grasped out and tugged against the first thing it reached, a heavy black robe, and he felt someone reach back and tug him up impatiently, most likely out of irritation and worry for their clothes rather than for him. When he had regained his balance with as much dignity as he could muster and cooled down the embarrassed blush of undoing his reputation for grace and agility in one move, Regulus tugged off his mask and looked around at the others. 

For obvious reasons, none of them looked pleased. In fact, all of them but Severus, who stood to Regulus’ right and was currently righting his robes from Regulus’ momentary lapse of balance, looked nervous. They shifted and looked down or to the side, some eyes narrowed, some eyes just nanometers too wide. Some lips were pinched, and some lips were slackened, and Regulus got lost for a moment in the oddity that was one expression being recognized despite all of those opposites. Finally, Travers spoke glumly, “He’s not going to be happy about this one.” Regulus rose a brow. That much was obvious and yet... the Dark Lord couldn’t possibly have expected them to succeed. Which begged the question: what had he expected? 

“A brilliant observation.” Severus’ voice was soft and unhurried as always, and Regulus looked off to the side, away from them all and toward the manor as he listened. Did Severus know as well that this was meant to be a farce? Of course, that didn’t mean they shouldn’t all be worried, it just meant they should be worried about something else entirely. 

“Was anyone killed?” Regulus found himself asking aloud, his eyes seeking someone’s and landing on Rodolphus’. He held them steadily as he waited for someone to answer, and didn’t bother discerning the voice of whomever it was who replied: “Not on our side.” Regulus had seen Sirius and Potter last, that left just Evans, Lupin, and Pettigrew. 

“The mudblood was safe.” 

His gaze still idly locked with Rodolphus’, Regulus smirked nearly invisibly at Severus’ words. He knew why Severus had noticed that detail, and he knew why the Dark Lord had sent them out. “Then no, he won’t be pleased,” Regulus concluded, ignoring the skeptical, irritated looks aimed his way in response to what seemed to them to be redundancy. He could feel especially Severus’ eyes on him, and he shifted to look calmly into black irises. Rodolphus had known about as much as the rest of the group, Regulus could tell, but Severus understood completely. Those five weren’t Dumbledore, but they were the force behind him, and if even the expectation of Dumbledore himself couldn’t prepare them for such a group, the Dark Lord was going to be very disappointed, dangerously so, and there was nothing he and Severus could do but wait as the others wondered how well they could get away with the excuse that their target hadn’t even showed up--an excuse garnered for the wrong failure.  His thoughts settling as he knew exactly what to expect, Regulus held back a wry smile as he tugged his gaze away from the other man’s and looked forward instead as the group began to murmur among themselves in hushed tones. 

“Will he come now?” 

“Where was Lucius? _He_ could have done something.” 

“I hope we get to leave soon. Annabelle’s been craving lately and driving the elves mad.” 

Regulus swallowed and let out a breath, feeling a sudden amount of fear and humanity creep up him, warm and tickling like an egg yolk dripping on his back in reverse. He breathed in again just as deeply and closed his eyes, focusing on the smell of the grass and the dew and the night. What were they doing here? Waiting for punishment in a war they fought simply because two sides of it had been trained to believe ever since they were too small to really know. He held back a shiver and forced his thoughts away, dragging his usual self back forward, kicking and screaming, from the depths of his mind until he could snort derisively though belatedly at Wilkes’ sentiment. His pregnant wife’s cravings would be the least of his pains that night. Macnair had a good point, though. Where was Lucius? Regulus just barely managed to resist the urge to raise a brow in Severus’ direction and glean the answer to that very question when an ominous crack rang through the sparsely-wooded field surrounding the Lestranges’. It wasn’t truly ominous, just the sound of apparition, but the feeling of foreboding spread through them all like wildfire nonetheless as they were compelled by something even deeper than instinct to form their usual circle. Regulus envied all those not left across from those dying, red eyes except for the only two that had it worse than he did himself: Rodolphus on the Dark Lord's left and, on the Dark Lord’s right because of Lucius’ absence, Severus. 

A tall and imposing figure dressed in enough black to shame a dementor, the Dark Lord had to do nothing other than stand and wait perhaps less than a second as his followers gathered around him, heads bent in submission, guilt, fear, and penance. Even Regulus dared not raise his eyes and his gaze was so lowered that his view was of his own body. The tension around him made him dizzy for a moment and the ground seemed suddenly far away until his brain and eyes seemed to plunk back down into his skull, back from wherever they’d tried to flee. Even Bellatrix was silent and had been since they’d all arrived, a sure sign that nothing was well. He’d almost forgotten she was there, but as they stood hunched and worried, he heard her make a soft, mournful sound of shame. 

“Where is the old fool?” 

The hissing words were met with silence and Regulus could hear shifting in the grass around him though he himself remained still as stone. He remembered belatedly that he’d taken his mask off earlier and never put it back on and wished dearly he could curse aloud. Between that and his ankle, what was wrong with him tonight? _What are you doing here, Regulus?_ He held back a cringe at the thought, Sirius’ voice and his own overlapping in his mind. Quickly, hoping that the movement was fast enough to be nothing much more than a twitch, Regulus snuck his hand into his pocket, then pressed his mask to his face, which was already bent toward  the ground and shadowed by his hood, before letting his arm fall back down to his side. If anything was noticed, it was not addressed as the Dark Lord focused instead on the silence permeating the group. 

“You have failed then.” Before anyone could speak up in their agreement even had they been brave enough to do so immediately, Bellatrix flung herself to the ground with a yelp that seemed like a badly restrained wail. Regulus lifted his head just enough to watch the scene and saw Rodolphus’ head jerk upward, obvious irritation and exasperation flooding through his dark eyes which widened then narrowed behind his mask. 

“Forgive us, Lord! The old man didn’t come. Instead he sent those blood traitors and the half-breed and filthy mudblood.” Her plea turned to venom as she spoke of the Order members and she glared into the air before glancing up once more at the Dark Lord and bowing her head deeply again. Regulus could remember when Bellatrix would stand proud, tall, and composed no matter what the circumstance, no matter what man stood before her. It was terrifying what a stolen, breathless, still life could do to a mother. 

The Dark Lord took this far too in stride to have not expected it and even too calmly to not have aimed for it. “And I assume you all managed to deal with five fools?” Ah, here it was. If Regulus hadn’t been mentally preparing himself, he might have smiled knowingly at having guessed the real point of it all. Again, a shifting, uncomfortable silence, and the Dark Lord dropped his act of idle business. “Of course. You prepare for Albus Dumbledore himself, and yet are unable to take down these five… or are you perhaps…unwilling? Is there a chance none of you take this seriously? Is there a chance even that you all expect me to do the work while you languish in the spoils?” Bellatrix, still on her knees only shook her head desperately, and Regulus could sense in the air that she wasn’t the only one who wanted to though she was the only one who dared. 

“They ambushed us, my lord,” Rodolphus spoke up, nerves peering out from behind even his polished tone. 

“Out-maneuvered by three blood traitors, a beast, and a mudblood despite preparations to handle Dumbledore himself?” the Dark Lord questioned icily, rolling his wand back and forth between his fingers. “And who was it, again, who led this mission, Rodolphus?” His voice softened dangerously, and he stepped back out of the circle to form his own, step by step, around Rodolphus’. 

“I was, my lord.” Rodolphus kneeled. 

“And whose council did you seek, Rodolphus?” 

Regulus swallowed a lump as big as his heart which was now jumping in his chest more frantically than humming bird wings despite how much he'd prepared; despite how much he'd known. “Mine, my lord,” he said as softly as he dared and as loudly as he could before falling submissively to his knees. His breath was getting shorter and his hands would be shaking if he were to attempt to hold something so heavy as a blade of grass. Really, the position was a relief to anyone who understood the pain of a knee locked in fear. His neck was beginning to ache from aiming his gaze so decisively downward, yet he didn’t dare look up, not yet. 

“Where is the hostage?” 

 _Just a glance, just one. Quickly._ Regulus’ eyes caught Rodolphus’ which drilled into his own, letting him know that he would speak. It was fair; it had been his decision. “There was no real hostage, my lord.”  If he didn’t know it was impossible, Regulus would have sworn in court that the Dark Lord had swooped toward him faster than a dementor. His heart pounding in his ears and his blood rushing into his brain and limbs and that place in his chest that felt deep enough to house his soul all blacked out the seconds between the Dark Lord being at Rodolphus’ side and being at his, Regulus’, side instead. 

“Fool,” the voice hissed above him.  

Regulus hissed as well, startled and frightened breath forcing its way quickly past his teeth as they tried fruitlessly to clamp down on his lungs’ mistake. “I saw no need for one, my lord.” 

“You saw no need for an incentive to keep the target occupied?” The circling of the Dark Lord through the grass was surprisingly soft and quiet, and Regulus knew the diameter was shrinking like a bird of prey spiralling ever-closer. 

“I believed a wild goose chase would buy us even more time, Lord.” Regulus himself believed that to be the only reason to the point where he had nothing to hide, but just in case, just in case those stupid, intrusive thoughts about morality and humanity snuck back up on him, he focused on just that with all of his might. 

“That may be so,” his master allowed, pausing behind Regulus in his steps for less than a breath before stepping around to face him from the center of the circle. “However, it was your plan that failed. Come forward.” Regulus bit his tongue hard as he walked. His plan. There had hardly even been a plan. They’d been arguing about it when they’d been attacked; they’d all known it was madness. No amount of hiding and surrounding and ambushing could trap Albus Dumbledore, and the only flaw had been that hesitation. No one had listened, not to him and not to Rodolphus.  When he reached the center, Regulus knelt, eyes widening only once as he gazed upward to his master’s face for only the shortest of seconds before his head lowered again. He purposely grit his teeth now rather than later; the last thing he needed was to bite his tongue off. 

“You failed, did you not, Regulus?” 

He wanted to argue--wanted to point out that all he'd planned was how to get the target to them, and that that had worked. He hadn't failed; there had been nothing to succeed in. “Yes.” He knew better than to say anything else. They both spoke so softly that Regulus knew only from experience that they could be heard quite well around the circle which was more silent than the forest around them. 

“ _Crucio_.” 

It took three rounds of this to make him scream and five for his vision to spot and his screams fade to groans. He’d had too much practice and each curse was kept short to allow him maddening coherency between them. He didn’t recall falling over, pressing his face and hand to the grass while his other arm crumbled beneath him, but he remembered each twitch and jerk of his muscles and the feel of his body struggling to relax only to be met by more pain. In the grass clenched between his fingers and pressed against his face, he couldn’t tell the difference between dew and the likely presence of involuntary tears. Even panting hurt his raw throat, and each breath came out as a soft keen, his chest and throat muscles tight. Only just able to breathe, Regulus remained still for a moment, testing whether or not it was truly over or if he was being given respite only so that his brain could catch up and truly take in the pain of another go. Finally, he pushed himself up more shakily than he’d like to admit and remained on his knees as the Dark Lord turned away. He could hardly even muster up relief, and whatever amount he might have found was dampened as he looked up in time to see Rodolphus arch and scream.  His brain still numb and slow with shock, Regulus couldn’t look away, which only shocked him into more painful apathy in a vicious cycle. He didn’t know how much time had passed before it was over, but when it was, he was finally able to breathe next to normally, and the flush and heat of his body was going down as his blood stopped racing time in preparation for a subconsciously imagined death. 

Finally, the Dark Lord returned to his place and Regulus’ eyes, following him, passed over Rodolphus’ pained, almost vacant face, then caught Severus’ gaze. Calm and steady as always, though some just saw it as cold and disdainful, the black eyes grounded him, making him remember where he was. The danger had passed. He was breathing, the pain was ebbing though the twitching still remained, and the Dark Lord’s attention had moved on. It was over. His hands unwound just barely from the grass. The calming effect faded but only barely when he looked back forward and down blankly toward the hem of his master’s robes. 

“But Rodolphus and Regulus weren’t the only two there were they?” he said, almost quietly enough that he might have been speaking to himself before his voice rose. “Like myself, they cannot entirely control the incompetence of those below them. You have all failed me.” 

Regulus did not dare move unless told to, and one by one the others joined him at the center of the circle. The screams or groans—depending on who could better handle just one casting—started to melt away as his mind wandered, sometimes to horrifyingly mundane things like whether or not the blue shirt he was fond of had been washed yet so that he could wear it tomorrow. Blue was such a calming color. Tired physically and mentally, and entirely unfocused, it took him a moment to realize it had all stopped and another second to realize that everyone including Rodolphus was once again standing. Still, standing at the center of the circle was never acceptable as it was directly in front of the Dark Lord. Even when the command was given, “Leave,” Regulus couldn’t be certain it pertained to him, and he remained cramped and aching in the same position he had been in for who knew how long as the cracks of apparition surrounded him. It wasn’t until the Dark Lord himself left and Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan tugged him up that Regulus moved. 

He stood as firmly as he could and tugged himself away from their hands, holding back a noise that he had no doubt would have been entirely pathetic-sounding. He didn’t want to be touched. He wanted no one near him, no hands on him touching and feeling and holding and dragging. Still, his “Thank you” was polite and he made it through an auto-pilot discussion of the up-coming family Christmas party that none of them could bring themselves to truly care about. When his cousins by blood and marriage began their trek up to the estate in front of them, Regulus gave them a nod good-bye and apparated. He was almost surprised when he managed a perfect landing on his hidden doorstep though he shouldn’t have been. He’d done this far too often to doubt his ability to handle it now.  As he stood in front of the door of his family home, Regulus rolled his shoulders, straightened his back and neck, and rose his chin. A small, practiced smirk was flashed at the heavy maple door in front of him before he gripped the doorknob and stepped inside to greet his parents. Another late night for their perfect soldier son.


	9. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

His muscles were still aching and he had a strange, nervous tick in his neck that he had a feeling would jerk his head to the side if he didn’t keep it in check. But his mind still worked, and his mouth still worked, and his hand still worked, and all he cared about was getting eggs into his stomach and breathing in the musty, earthy air of the basement kitchen. It was silent but for Kreacher washing some dishes and organizing the rest, dusting them and ordering them by size and type. Ever since he’d been little, this room had calmed Regulus the most, maybe because it was the one place in the house where he could hear nothing else: not his mother’s screaming, not his brother’s shouting or stomping—though a secret, deep part of him longed to hear that again—and not his father’s cold but strong voice threatening. The only thing that would complete his contentment was if his legs were still short enough to swing them from his place on the bench. Between bites, Regulus took sips of orange juice and watched Kreacher work, wondering if this was how most people felt with a mother in the kitchen. He pulled a grimace just seconds after the thought, hoping his own mother didn’t come down looking for him. He was meant to go to the ministry today as his father was again ‘indisposed.’ 

As Regulus watched, the elf looked up and, with a crack, disappeared. Regulus let out a soft breath, assuming his mother had called, and resigned himself to hurrying to finish his meal. It meant she was awake. Just as he gulped back his last sip of orange juice to wash down his toast, he heard the creaking of footsteps above him and stood in time to see the door open carelessly. Walburga Black stepped graciously down the steps, leaving the door for Kreacher to close before scrambling down after her so that he could wait at her heels.   
  
“Mother.” Regulus stood from his chair and greeted her with a nod and a small smile, one he knew she held so dear to her or rather pretended to. Regulus had never been the dear child; he’d only been a ‘well, he’ll do’ once his brother had ran. He’d been bred to follow—to follow his brother, to follow his parents, to follow his cause—never to lead, and yet there he was, their only remaining heir for the entire Black family. But regardless of her love for him, Regulus felt always his love for her, and his heart warmed when she smiled back, though the expression was colder than his, tired and more practiced. Surely she loved him, even if he wasn’t the bold, pioneering, leader they’d raised Sirius to be (and oh how they had come to regret that). She was at least proud of him at times.  
  
“You remember who you must speak to today, yes?” She questioned as she stepped up to the end of the  table and swiped a finger over the smooth wood, checking fruitlessly for dust; Kreacher would rather die than leave behind grime.   
  
“Yes.” Bartemius Crouch, to make sure the Ministry had received their donation to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and to make it clear that the Department had their family’s blessing and complete loyalty. The irony of Regulus himself being the one to send this message of a fealty of sorts almost made him smirk and a flicker of amusement shone in his eyes.  The table passed her inspection and Mother rubbed her fingers together quickly out of impulse more than anything as there couldn’t possibly have been any dust. Regulus watched her out of the corner of his eye as he collected his dishes, filling the room with the light clatter of ceramic, glass, and silver as he piled everything together and stepped over the bench  to take it all to the sink.   
  
“Good. I expect you to leave by one in the afternoon.” When Regulus turned around, she had straightened, tall and proud with her hand placed lightly on the table he’d just vacated, not for strength but for poise. She was cold, but she was his mother and she was beautiful.  
  
“Yes, Mother.”  Regulus was then left alone as his mother turned without a word. Her grand robes, cut similar to a late-Victorian bustled gown, swished and whispered across the stone floor which clicked against her shoes. The stairs creaked and clomped as she strode up them and then with a creek and snick of the door she was gone. Regulus felt a tension flow out of him and, no longer crushed beneath that, his weariness rose up again so that he sighed and slumped back lightly against the sink. He was tired, so tired, but more than that, he was determined. He was the heir to a household he’d never thought he would be the head of. Not only that, he was heir to an entire family, the entire House of Black. The younger son, the one never meant to be great, he had a lot to prove; exhaustion was a luxury he could not afford.  
  
Still, the memories from last night flickered through his thoughts, and it took him a moment to push himself back upright and step forward. Kreacher was no longer in the room, and the lack of his comforting rush around the dishes and table made the room oppressive in its quiet loneliness in a way that Regulus usually did not feel. His voice seemed to echo when he called out “The Ministry of Magic” and threw the floo powder into the fire. It was as uncomfortable as apparition, but at least this way he didn’t have to skulk down an alleyway and check for muggles first or make sure not a single corner of his robes left the wards and were seen when he spun on the doorstep.   
  
As accustomed to it as he was, which was really only as used to it as his body could be, Regulus still had to stifle a cough as he stepped out of the floo and dusted himself off, wishing that the Ministry at least kept their fireplaces a little bit more tidy, though they probably did the best they could considering the constant flow of people in and out. Off to the side of the fireplace so that he wouldn’t be blocking anyone else, Regulus beat the ash off of his clothing, then stepped forward, slightly mesmerized as always by the absurdly shiny black tiles that made up the floors and walls of the hall and corridors. It gave the illusion of endlessness and depth like a dark ocean that one could sink into until they forgot even their own name. 

“Name and wand,” the bored intern said, snapping gum as he flicked through a muggle magazine. Regulus’ eyes rose after he took in the mass amount of bikinis. Regulus imagined that if Sirius had red hair, he’d look just like this, and his hypothesis was furthered when, upon looking up, the man let out a quiet, derisive grunt before looking back down and turning a page. Irritated, Regulus was tempted to chuck his wand at him, but he wouldn’t mistreat his own wand in such a way and so the most annoying thing he could do was stubbornly placing his wand on the very edge of the desk instead of handing it to the man.  
  
“Regulus Black. One of your sort might be less rude.” The words left his mouth before he was even aware of them doing so. It was all a play here, an act, and he had memorized his lines long before he’d ever had to say them.  
  
That got the man’s attention. “One of my sort?” he echoed angrily, his head snapping up to show dark brown eyes that stuck out almost comically against ginger hair, freckles, and milk skin. “Not that I’m surprised to hear that from a Black.”  
  
Regulus smirked. In all honesty, he’d meant a lazy bastard, but he decided it would be more fun to let the man think whatever he would. There would be no harm in letting a desk jockey talk about him.  “Well yes. I can assure you that I’m just as surprised about you as you are about me. Now, if you’d please do your job.”  
  
The muttering and glaring as the man weighed and recorded his wand next to his name and placed it away in a box did not go unnoticed, but whereas it would have been an insult had it been uncalled for, it was now simply a badge that Regulus had earned with his words. “Here.” The man stuffed the paper into Regulus’ hands and Regulus gave him a charming smile that, true to what had once been his inner nature, was far too innocent and shy to belong to a man who could use words as daggers, flames, or swords.  
  
“Thank you.” Regulus turned and let himself grimace subtly once he had walked away from the desk attendant and the line that had gathered as the more crowded time of the afternoon had approached. He impulsively crumpled the slip of parchment in his fist as he put it in his pocket, unsure if he was grimacing at the intern or at himself or maybe at both. That didn’t matter. The important thing was getting onto a lift that wasn’t so crowded as to ensure having elbows jabbing into his ribs on every side.    
  
It was its own special kind of miracle when, after refusing a lift full to the brim, the next arrived with only two others already inside.  A few more followed Regulus in, but when the grate shut their number was only seven and Regulus was able to keep his personal space to himself and his body relaxed.   
  
“Level two: the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…”  
  
As the voice continued to coolly and professionally list the subdivisions, Regulus stepped out of the lift and turned to the left, intent on getting this over with as quickly as possible. Though he held it back much easier now than he ever used to, Regulus was naturally quite timid and he didn’t entirely look forward to needing to socialize with a man he did not know and whose opinion his family’s fate currently rode on.   
  
The corridor, like all of the corridors that Regulus had seen at the Ministry, was dark and deep, tiled with the same black tile as the antechamber, and lined with doors leading to offices before it opened up to a large area full of cubicles. Most of the Aurors were unfortunate enough to be filling out paper work quietly, some of them frantic as though they’d been putting it off, the hands-on type that hadn’t quite learned to accept the other half of their work yet. Others were standing and craning over the tops of their cubicles to talk to their neighbors, keeping their voices lowered in deference of those filling out forms. Regulus hurried past them. He didn’t want to run the risk of seeing Potter in there even though he doubted seeing trainees in that section was common occurrence.   
  
When at least he reached the end of the hall, Regulus took a moment to straighten his robes absent-mindedly and took a breath before standing as tall as he could. He didn’t realize how much he resembled his father, and if he did, it might have tempered his nerves somewhat. As it was, he had to lock his anxiety up all by himself without hiding behind his father’s reputation, which was usually how he did things anyway. He rose a hand and rapped firmly on the door, ignoring the way the echoing of the sound throughout the hallway grated on his nerves. He never liked being the cause of noise, perhaps because he’d grown up in such a loud household without much peace, and it made him nervous and self-conscious. He didn’t have time to harbor those emotions for long, however, before the door opened, revealing a tired face, brown hair and mustache quickly turning grey. Regulus had known Barty at school and had known Crouch through various social functions for almost as long, and he still hadn’t spotted any similarities between the two.   
  
“Mr. Black,” Crouch greeted. The door to his office opened in welcome as he stepped back, but Regulus knew this was only in spite of the wariness that he could pick up easily in the way Crouch moved and the way his eyes flashed. It made Regulus have to fight off a tension of his own as he nodded politely.  
  
“Mr. Crouch.” They shook hands and Regulus noticed the other man’s shake was quick and almost painful—smothering. Regulus had hardly even had time to move, his own hand simply being dragged along. “I’m here on behalf of my father,” he explained, taking a moment to survey the room behind the Department Head he stood before. The room was almost horrifically neat. Books were stacked perfectly and were even the same size on top of the clutter-free desk and in the shelves, and Regulus had to wonder how the man even managed that. Did he order them specially with dimensions measured out? Did he bring one book out each time he shopped for more in order to make sure they would be the same? Frankly, it was disturbing. When Regulus looked back, he noticed the man’s eyes trained on his left arm and, making it clear he had noticed and did not think much of the action at all, rose a brow when Crouch looked up.   
  
“Yes, come in,” the man said slowly, not even having the decency to seem in any way ashamed. As they both stepped inside, Regulus first,  Regulus could practically read in Crouch’s dark brown eyes the nagging desire to bare Regulus’ arm where he would check the skin for the black skull that would shout a dark allegiance up to the pure white ceiling of the office. It made Regulus’ skin crawl, and he held off the urge to grip at the edge of his sleeve as Crouch stepped around him . “Take a seat,” Crouch offered as he himself sat behind the darkly polished desk in a well-cushioned office chair.  As if out of habit, Crouch picked up a quill and rolled it between his fingers idly, poised above a slip of parchment.  
  
“I’d rather not.” Regulus reflexively spared a glance for the smaller chairs in front of the desk, royal cushions that matched the carpeting and were framed in wood matching the desk. A dark cherry wood, perhaps. He looked back up to explain, “I’m here only to ensure that our donation to your department was received.” He saw no need to sit; he didn’t want to be here for much longer as he could feel his anxiety struggling to get out, held inside for too long and made worse by the fatigue, left over from the trying night before, that still crept beneath his consciousness. Regulus held a fair amount of empathy love for people and humanity, surprising particularly considering his path in life, but oh how he hated being too near them.   
  
“It was, of course.  I’m sorry if you did not receive a thanks; we’ve just gotten a new secretary.” They hadn’t; Regulus didn’t forget a face easily, and he’d seen the ‘old’ secretary speaking with one of the Aurors when he’d passed the cubicles. Still, Regulus smiled as Crouch looked up at him with only his eyes so that his brows rose as well.  
  
“I understand of course. My father will be pleased to hear it, as am I. In such trying times, it’s important to all of us that the ministry be able to afford whatever they need to keep our world safe from—”  
  
Crouch cut him off, setting down his pen which he held tightly enough that Regulus could see the whitening of his knuckles even from where he stood. “And I assume you mean all of the wizards and witches of our world should be kept safe, don’t you, Mr. Black?”  
  
The accusation was obvious, blaringly so, and that together with the interruption forced Regulus to pause, taken aback as he rarely was. Luckily, that only helped add to his act, to the carefully purveyed shock that such a thing could ever be doubted. “Well yes of course.” His voice was quick and just emotional enough for the rush to appear as earnestness rather than appearing forced. It struck him that they were both saying ‘of course’ a rather lot for two people who meant hardly a single thing they were saying throughout the conversation.   
  
“Safe from what then,” Crouch prompted him to continue, steely eyes pinning Regulus’ own gaze and body down so that he froze even as he moved to swipe his thumb absent-mindedly against the wrist he held in his hand, just centimeters below the Dark Mark. Crouch leaned back in his chair imperially as he waited for the answer, and did he look just the smallest bit disappointed when Regulus seemed as unflustered as ever?  
  
“Safe from these monstrous new rebels and their ‘Dark Lord,’ clearly.” Regulus paused again, but this time his thumb swiped past his wrist just once, no longer tied up in stillness, then he spoke as though a thought had just struck him, though in reality he was simply aiming to say what he knew would hurt the most. “That _is_ where your resources—I mean… _our_ resources—are going, isn’t it, Mr. Crouch?” It was all he could do to hold back a snicker and a smirk when the man’s face instantly went red with anger. Crouch was known for his fanaticism, it was something that drove Barty mad on a daily basis, and Regulus had heard often enough Barty’s voice from underneath of a mask sardonically mimicking his father’s words about monsters and criminals and how they should all be hanged. It was Crouch himself who petitioned for the Auror’s new ability to use Unforgiveables.   
  
“How dare you!” Crouch spluttered when he finally could bring himself to speak. Regulus simply continued to stand still, left hand clasping his right wrist in front of him, and rose his brows innocently as though he had no idea what he’d said to cause offence.   
  
“I meant no offence, sir, it just seemed, by your questioning that—”  
  
“Of course all of _my_ resources are going toward that monster!” The man stood quickly and violently. His palms slammed down on the desk as he leaned forward, and the chair teetered even as it wheeled back. Regulus held back laughter. It was all so absurd, the way people reacted to their own emotions. What was the point of it? He was glad Crouch had also caught that jab about it being Black money. He had a feeling the tantrum wouldn’t be quite so amusing if the man hadn’t. “My people are out day and night, missing breaks, working over-time, missing their families, and risking their lives, and you question that?”  
  
“Of course not, sir. I was merely making sure.”  He met Crouch’s gaze squarely and his voice was more firm than it had been the entire time, no longer light and farcical when he said quite clearly, “He is a monster.” It seemed it was time to bow out now. It had been quite a show, and Regulus took one more moment to look at the man with some fascination. The tension was painted all across his body. His face was still red as his chest heaved. His hands still pressed against the desk were white, particularly at the bent wrists, and the chair had slid all the way to the wall behind him. Suddenly, it reminded Regulus of Sirius, fiery Gryffindor Sirius, and it was no longer half as interesting or entertaining.   
  
“I wish you the best of luck.” With that, Regulus turned on his heal and let himself out of the room, his brain already taking the scene apart and placing each piece somewhere where he didn’t have to worry about it again until he needed to. It was a much more instinctive and abstract process than could be described, really, but he supposed if he made a list, it would look something like:  
  
1\. Crouch suspected he was a Death Eater: under lock and key; it didn’t matter.  
2\. Crouch had not sent a thank you: shoved to the side; he’d need that later as they clearly were no longer in his good graces.  
3\. Crouch highly doubted the Black family cared about protecting everyone: that much was obvious enough to not even bother organizing.  
4\. Voldemort was a monster: burn it; it didn’t matter, and it could never be found.  
  
With everything tucked away, Regulus’ mind moved on entirely as though nothing had even happened. Each step seemed irrelevant now that his task was done, and he paid hardly any attention to the hallway he walked down. He pressed the button on the lift in autopilot, received his wand without a single word to the still-irritated attendant, then crossed the cavernous foyer to the floo and was gone in just minutes. He didn’t look up to see Crouch watching his path through the window of his office which offered him a view of the ground floor, and he certainly was unaware of Crouch pulling out a file labeled “Regulus A. Black- SUSPECT.” Though doubtless, if he had, he wouldn’t have cared.


	10. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus Black is slipping. Once sweet and empathetic with careful words and a neutral facade, he has learned to shut down his emotions in order to survive in this new world of callous war. But every once in a while, he remembers his humanity, and he is truly afraid of who he is going to become. Now graduated and a fully-fledged member of the Dark Lord's innermost circle, it can only get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

“You’ve improved so much, Regulus. You know that, don’t you?”

Her voice was nearly a coo, similar to how she had once cooed lovingly at her stomach but there was a biting edge to it and a keen of hatred and fury and pain beneath it. He’d heard her do this before, but never to him. The tone came and went spontaneously as if her practiced parenthood, having no release, had begun to seep out of her in black, stinging tendrils, running wildly in any direction and toward any target. The deep blue of a night lit only by a full moon over the lawn of the Lestrange Manor was pure and untainted by the bitter poison inside the house, and so Regulus did not turn away from it to look at his cousin’s face, not even once he spoke.

“Have I?” Sometimes, he wasn’t so certain. Sometimes, it seemed as though a curse would resist him, or possibly he it. Maybe there had been more weight behind his parents worries than anyone else had thought and his unicorn tail wand was a sign of softness and weakness.

“Oh yes, littlest Black. You’ll be the most important of us yet.”

The only other person in the entire family that didn’t have dragon heartstring was Andromeda, a healer and a blood traitor. Regulus bit down on his tongue and grasped his wand tightly enough that had his hand not been hidden in his pocket, his knuckles would have shown white underneath of the buttery candle light that flooded the room. Finally and regrettably, he let his right hand fall to his side and the curtain fluttered down after it, hiding the calm grounds away as he turned to face Bellatrix once again. She was so graceful when she sipped the cup of wine, so ageless and beautiful. For not the first time, Regulus wondered if his mother had looked like this once. They certainly appeared similar in pictures and Sirius who took after Mother’s side would probably have passed as Bellatrix’s twin if they weren’t of the opposite sex and almost ten years apart in age. Despite all of the evidence of their likeness, though, all Regulus could see in his mother’s face was bitterness while Bella managed somehow a strange, manic optimism despite the madness she increasingly seemed to  exude. “Did you like the way he screamed?” Even as her lips lifted into a little twitch of sadistic pleasure, she was still beautiful. It was sickening.

It wasn’t until she looked him straight in the eye with a tiny quirk of both her brow and her head that Regulus realized he’d taken too long to respond. Instead, he’d watched a she’d placed down the wineglass and carelessly flicked hair out of her eyes. “Well? Did you?”

“No.” The whisper, honest but with trepidation, finally pressed past his lips lighter than a sigh. He hated it; the way they screamed and writhed and begged. Why couldn’t they just shut up? Didn’t they know that their voices haunted his dreams both awake and asleep? Didn’t they know that he couldn’t eat and sometimes could hardly breathe? Sometimes, it made him just want to hurt even them more in anger.  He wanted to punch them in their stupid mouths and carve out their vocal chords until they couldn’t say another word. It was a horrible thought, and perhaps his fear of and for himself showed on his face because when he next looked up from the carpet to which his eyes had wandered—this one the style of an oriental rug but with images of wizards fighting off dragons and goblins—Bellatrix was in front of him. She brought up a hand and laid it calmly on his shoulder.

“You will learn to love it.” Regulus knew from experience that people didn’t understand the humanity behind darkness and didn’t understand that even the most frightening of people often cared deeply for those they saw as their own. He knew that it would frighten anyone else to see the fondness in her eyes as she spoke such unnatural words, but he didn’t find it shocking, and he loved her.

As for loving their screams… he wasn’t sure if he should hope to Merlin that he would or if he should pray to a muggle god that he wouldn’t.

Regulus was saved from answering by creaking of the door as it opened, followed by a grumble that was almost drowned out by the sound of the door closing behind Rodolphus. “Damned door. I told that elf to get rid of its bloody squealing.” The man looked up, caught Regulus’ eyes, and smirked. “Oh hello, cousin.”

“Hello.” Regulus had to try hard not to bite down on his tongue enough for it to be noticeable in the tension in his jaw. He wasn’t  sure how he felt about Rodolphus, though it had already been a few years in which Rodolphus had been his cousin by marriage. Something seemed off about the man, though, and there was something predatory in his eyes, wild like Bella’s but in a different way: slower and more calculating and yet somehow more cruel. Bellatrix was mad like a wolf was mad during the hunt; it was instinctive almost a necessity of her life. Rodolphus was mad in an all too human way; he relished not only in his actions but in the madness itself and welcomed it and used it as a tool. It was the fact that he had control but did not practice it that made him somehow more frightening.

“You’re adapting, Black. Very good.”  The man, tall and dark so that shadows seemed to wrap around him even in the candlelight, walked with a panther’s gait over to the high-backed chair Bella had been sitting in. From the small table next to that, he picked up the glass of wine and swilled it for a moment before knocking the rest of it back. Bellatrix snorted, and the sound almost startled Regulus as for just a moment he’d forgotten his cousin was there, still next to him with her hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve already told him.” Her fingers tightened and transferred some of her frustrations into Regulus’ skin before she quickly crossed to the fire and stood tall and tense before it, casting a silhouette. Bellatrix didn’t like Rodolphus, and Rodolphus didn’t like Bellatrix, and despite his childhood stubbornly begging him to hold onto it, Regulus was beginning to think he didn’t like either of them, not even Bella though he’d always love her.

The glass clinked back down to the table harshly. “I’m unsure how that has any bearing on what I should do, but, regardless, the boy deserves praise from both of us. The last time we took him, he could do nothing more than tremble out a stunner.”

Regulus flushed. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d only hesitated because he’d caught sight of Fenrir Greyback hovering over a small form… and there had been blood in the snow. The sight had hypnotized him with nausea and dizzy horror, and he’d forgotten what he’d been meant to be doing. Flustered and rushed when Rodolphus had called him to task, Regulus’ instincts had drawn on habit, and he’d spit out a stunner rather than slicing the man open with a spell Snape had created as he’d been ordered.

“As fond of your presence as I am, dear husband, I will be upstairs.” Bellatrix couldn’t contain the waspishness in her voice as she excused herself, and she slammed the door behind her with what Regulus swore was a genetic strength because she, Sirius, and Mother were the only people Regulus had ever seen shake an entire room and all of its glassware including a large vase heavy with water and well-bloomed roses.

Left alone with Rodolphus, Regulus turned his head toward the man and felt anxiety crash over him, crawl up his spine, and try to squeeze its way painfully out of this throat like a slug. Rodolphus was older, bigger, and not directly related to him. To Regulus, all of those things sent sirens blaring in his head, and his blood started pumping faster .

“I don’t think you could look more nervous, Black.” With the strange, loose grace of a person who hadn’t quite cared to pay attention to a pureblood mother’s nagging but had still picked up on some of it anyway, Rodolphus reached over to the table once again to pour himself another glass of wine.  Regulus shifted uncomfortably, against the tension evolved to keep him still and unnoticeable, until he could lean against the wall. It was rare when Regulus was completely tongue-tied, but that was the only way to describe how he felt then, as though expending the energy it took to speak at all would throw off the already precarious rhythm of his heartbeat and lungs so that he would simply collapse.  “I know you’re not the loudest of the lot, but honestly now, it’s rude to not speak when spoken to.” A grin broke out on Rodolphus’ face as he added, “Besides, I don’t bite.”

“I’m not nervous.” But it was a childish insistence. Though Regulus did not move, did not fidget, as he leaned against the wall, his nerves probably permeated the air deeply enough for  anyone to pick them up.

Rodolphus chuckled lowly and stood before walking over, and Regulus tensed again as the man stood next to him and faced the opposite direction to look out the window. A heavy hand pressed against the window sill and held open a curtain as he leaned forward. “Really? What are you then? Excited?”

“No.” Regulus had hardly even spoke before Rodolphus had swooped in on him, grabbing his shoulders. His heart jolted into his throat. Rodolphus wasn’t a good person in the least, and the air around him seemed poisonous as Regulus tried desperately to remember how to breathe it in.

“Well you should be,” the man said with a fervor, “You’re far too young, and yet the Dark Lord has allowed you to become one of us, to add to the cause. You may have just been a token from your family, but now you have extra years to prove that you are more, and you will.” Regulus wasn’t sure if he wanted to prove the type of things these people were looking for him to prove, and perhaps that showed on his face because Rodolphus shook him lightly. “You just need to learn, but you will. And I will help you. Bellatrix thinks we need to go slowly with you, but I think you can and should handle more.”

Regulus tugged himself out of Rodolphus’ grip and backed away. More? Already, Regulus had seen things he could never take back. Already, he’d tasted blood in the air because there was just that much of it, some of it on his own hands both literally and figuratively. Already, he felt like a monster whenever he looked for too long into the mirror. “No, I don’t think I will.” He was surprised and somewhat impressed that his voice came out commanding and cold as he turned away and crossed the room. He would find Bella and say good bye. She was the one he’d come to visit, not the mad man she’d been betrothed to, and now that his trip had taken an unhappy turn, Regulus would be going home.

“You shall.” There was an amused lilt in Rodolphus’ tone and Regulus looked back over his shoulder just once more at the man who stood again by the armchair and table, wine glass in hand. As he lifted it to his lips, his eyes glittered despite their darkness, and there was a knowing smirk on his face. If Rodolphus had been someone Regulus could ever hope to survive insulting, he would have tried to hex that stupid expression right off of his face. Instead, he turned and continued to walk, his insides writhing and his heart pumping blood too quickly into his face, arms, and legs.


End file.
